by Ann Warner
When he returned after dinner to check on the mare, he found her lying down and lightly sheened with sweat. He called his father, and the two of them kept watch. At three in the morning, after an uncomplicated labor, the foal slipped out into the clean straw. The mare stood and began cleaning it off with strong sweeps of her tongue.
It was perfect, from the tiny hooves to the small head that was the image in miniature of its sire. But as Alan moved forward to get a better look, he realized the foal wasn’t moving. And then he saw it. The cord, twisted around the foal’s neck and with a sharp bend in it, like a garden hose folded over to stop the flow of water. Only this bend had restricted the foal’s lifeblood.
For a moment, Alan stood frozen, staring at the dead foal, until the soft sound of his father’s distress nudged him into action. He stepped forward and lifted the foal, turning away from the mare who whickered in uncertainty. Behind him, his father, voice rough with sorrow, tried to comfort the mare.
Death. Inevitable. Especially on a ranch. Calves born too early in the spring. Injured animals that had to be put down. The horse he’d had since he was eight that died of old age when he was twenty. The two dogs that preceded Cormac.
He hated it, but he’d accepted it. Until Meg. Losing her had knocked him asunder, erased all the messages he’d used in the past to comfort himself. “. . . a long, happy life. . . better off out of pain.”
Meg. She’d had a happy life, he was certain of it, because he had been there for most of it.
But not a long life.
It wasn’t supposed to be that way.
His arms tightened around the dead foal as the memory of holding Meg that last time engulfed him, the pain for a moment as overwhelming and unendurable as the day Meg died.
~ ~ ~
Monday afternoon, Alan arrived for his meeting with Hilstrom, his eyes gritty from lack of sleep, his stomach raw from too much coffee and too little food.
Hilstrom’s assistant looked up when he walked in. “Let me tell her you’re here.”
As she made the call, Alan stared at the picture hanging behind the woman—a ballerina who could be made to appear to be balancing on the assistant’s head. With a start, he remembered noticing the same thing the first time he met with Hilstrom. And had it really been a year already? He shook his head, realizing as he did, he was half looped with weariness. He should have rescheduled, but it was too late now.
“Go on in,” the assistant said.
He stepped through the doorway and took a seat on the sofa.
Hilstrom sat across from him. “I expect you know what this meeting is about.” She spoke briskly, glancing from the file on her lap to him.
He struggled to keep his eyes open and focused.
“As you know, the RPT committee has recommended you for tenure. I’m sorry, Alan, but I’ve decided not to support that.” She looked up and met his eyes briefly before looking back at the file.
He started to lift a hand to rub his aching head, but let it subside in his lap.
Although the dean, the provost, and the board of trustees had yet to rule, none of them had as important and weighty a vote as Hilstrom, and it was unlikely any of them would step in to overrule her. So that was that.
“You’ll still have next year with us, and I’ll be happy to write you a positive letter of recommendation. You’re a fine teacher, dedicated and creative, and I expect you’ll have no difficulty finding a position more aligned with your interests.”
Her words echoed, as if coming at him in a cave. He tried to rouse himself to the proper reaction: contempt at a system that focused on publication records to the exclusion of everything else, derision for Hilstrom, whose narrow-minded approach had already forced out several good people, determination to follow Charles’s advice after all and sue. But all he could manage was a vague disinterest in the whole proceeding. It was taking every bit of his energy just to stay upright and keep his eyes open.
He took a breath and spoke carefully. “Thank you for meeting with me and making your position clear.” Then he stood, taking the initiative for ending the meeting away from her. Not caring that he’d broken protocol. Not caring about any of it. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” Without waiting for her response, he walked through the door, closed it softly behind him, nodded at the assistant, then kept walking until he was outside.
His feet carried him to the parking lot, where he got into his car. On automatic pilot, he drove to his apartment. When he arrived, he dropped onto the bed without undressing and fell into a blessedly deep sleep.
Chapter Fifteen
Her heart sinking, Kathy went over her last meeting with Alan: Sonoro’s restlessness, when she had never seen Sonoro other than perfectly under control when Alan was riding him, and the way Alan wouldn’t look at her.
But it was the interaction in the barn that left her the most perplexed. That ravaged look on his face when he said he was sorry he’d kissed her. How did that fit with the way he’d kissed her. . . as if he were starving and she were food and drink.
None of it made sense. And all of it hurt.
Saturday. She’d ask Grace to give her a chance to talk to Alan privately. And this time, she’d stick it out. Not leave until he explained himself.
~ ~ ~
Kathy had just arrived home from work Friday evening when Mrs. Costello called up the stairs to tell her Grace was on the phone.
“Kathy. Mira. We can’t go to the ranch tomorrow. Delia has a fever. Could you let Alan know?”
Kathy was sorry Delia was sick, but it was going to make it easier to have that talk with Alan.
~ ~ ~
Saturday, before she left for the ranch, Kathy called Grace to check on Delia.
Frank answered the phone. “Oh, God, Kathy. She’s in the hospital. We almost lost her last night.”
Kathy’s breath caught in her throat, and all she could manage was an incoherent sound. It couldn’t be. Not Delia. Sweet, laughing, lovable Delia with her bright eyes and cloud of curls. So sick they’d almost lost her? It wasn’t possible.
When Kathy arrived at Children’s Hospital, she found Grace sitting in the corner of the intensive care waiting room, staring out the window. As Grace turned a tear-stained face toward her, Kathy pulled her into her arms.
Grace held on tight, sobbing. “Ay Dios mío, I’m so scared. She’s in septic shock.”
“I don’t know what that is.” Kathy took Grace’s hands in hers. “Septic shock?”
“It’s a bad infection. In her blood. Then her body tries to fight it, and that just makes it worse.”
Although Kathy didn’t totally understand Grace’s explanation, the other woman’s fear made her stomach clench with dread.
“But how could it happen so fast?”
“It just does.” Grace wiped her eyes.
“When do you get to see her?”
“In a couple of minutes.”
As if Grace’s words conjured her, a young woman in surgical scrubs decorated with Mickey and Minnie Mouse appeared. “Mrs. Garibaldi? You can come on back now.”
“Kathy, por favor. Come with me.”
They walked over to a door that Grace pulled open when the lock release sounded. After they washed their hands, they put on gowns, gloves, shoe coverings, and face masks, then Grace led the way to Delia’s room, accompanied by the clicking, beeping and soft whooshing of medical equipment.
Delia lay motionless in a tangle of wires and tubing, looking tiny and so incredibly fragile. Tears welled out of Kathy’s eyes and ran down into the mask.
Grace touched one of Delia’s hands with her finger and spoke softly. “Delia, Mami is here. And so is Tía Kathy.” Grace glanced at Kathy. “It’s good to talk to her. Sometimes patients remember when they wake up.”
Kathy moved to the other side of the bed and took Delia’s hand in hers. The tips of Delia’s fingers were white, and her hand felt cool. She glanced at Grace.
“It’s the infection,” Grace said. “It a
cts like frostbite.”
Her throat aching, Kathy spoke to the little girl. “Delia, Arriba will be disappointed you didn’t show up to ride her this week. She’ll be real sad to hear you’re sick. I’m sad too. I love you, baby.”
Delia didn’t react.
Kathy looked over at Grace, who was crying silently. Grace’s desperation frightened Kathy even more than Frank’s had. After all, Grace was a nurse. Nobody was going to be able to fob her off with false hope.
Kathy continued to hold Delia’s hand, but instead of speaking to the child, she began to pray—asking, imploring, God to help the little girl—while Grace, murmuring in a mixture of Spanish and English, smoothed Delia’s hair.
After a time, a nurse came to check on Delia, and Grace and Kathy took a break. When they returned to the waiting room, Frank was there. He gave Grace a hopeful look.
Grace shook her head. “How is Blackie-two?”
“Fine. She did make a mess in the basement, though. Not her fault. That’s why I didn’t get back right away.”
“Poor Blackie-two,” Grace said. “We forgot all about her.”
“I can take care of her for you. Then you won’t have to worry.”
When Frank and Grace went back to sit with Delia, Kathy borrowed Grace’s key and drove to the Garibaldis’ house to pick up Blackie-two along with her bed, dishes, and food.
It wasn’t until she got Blackie-two settled at the Costellos’ that Kathy remembered what she’d been doing when she heard the news about Delia—getting ready to go to TapDancer. After Frank told her about Delia, she hadn’t even thought to call Alan to say they wouldn’t be coming.
She looked up the number for the ranch and dialed. A female voice said hello.
“Stella?”
“No. Sorry. This is Elaine. Did you want to speak to my mother?”
“No, no. Actually, I need to speak to Alan.”
“He’s not here. Can I take a message?”
Kathy heard the sudden piercing howl of an infant in the background.
“Oh shoot,” Elaine said, sounding harassed. “Could you call back later?”
“Sure,” Kathy said, but Elaine had already disconnected.
Kathy almost called again after dinner but remembering Alan’s sister was visiting, decided it might be better to wait until Sunday night when he would be back in Denver.
But Sunday night there was no answer at his apartment. She thought about leaving a message, but decided against it. It wasn’t something she’d want to find on her answering machine—news that someone she loved was in intensive care in critical condition.
~ ~ ~
After that weekend, Kathy’s sense of urgency to speak with Alan was pushed to the background by her worry over Delia. Even the fleeting thought that Alan needed to be told, failed to move Kathy to actually pick up the phone and dial his number. She was simply too emotionally exhausted after a day at work followed by an evening at the hospital to deal with anything more.
Her major comfort during days and nights filled with worry about Delia and grief over the way things had ended with Alan, were the few minutes every evening she spent re-reading Emily’s diaries.
They were a reminder that Emily had made it through a time every bit as dark and difficult.
Chapter Sixteen
Excerpt from the diaries of Emily Kowalski
1930
I sure haven’t been very good about this diary business, but it seemed like once I got the history part done, I just couldn’t get the knack of writing about things as they were actually happening.
But I aim to try again. Jess thought I’d filled up the book he gave me, so he bought me another one.
This last year has been awful hard, although not for us so much. But everyone is learning to do with less and not to waste a single thing, like half a diary.
Jess and I have been luckier than most. Jess is teaching, and I was as well, up until a few weeks ago. Then I had to stop, because we are going to have a baby, at last.
I’d about given up hope it was ever going to happen, although I never said so to Jess. But maybe he felt that way, too, because when I told him I was expecting, he was even more excited than I was.
It feels like all my dreams have come true. I know, I still haven’t done everything I planned. But the most important thing is I met Jess, we fell in love, and now we are going to have a baby.
I think it will be easy to write every day, now. I will have so much to write about. I want to remember every moment.
1933
When Bobby was born, the doctor told me I would be risking my life if I had another child before I recovered fully. I was so excited about Bobby arriving safe and sound, I paid him no heed. It was only later, when he repeated the warning, that I noticed how serious he looked. He also insisted on speaking to Jess.
I thought a year or two would be sufficient time, and I didn’t let it worry me. But today he told me I must continue to avoid pregnancy at all costs. When I tasked him about it, he said it would be best if I never had another child.
It is a difficult thing to hear.
I take comfort in Bobby, who is growing like a weed and is so quick and intelligent. Not to mention handsome. He and Jess are the lights of my life.
1936
It’s been such a long time since I felt like picking up a pen and recording my thoughts or the events of my life. In truth, this last year is one I don’t want to remember, but I doubt I shall ever forget.
I don’t know if I’m ready even now to write again, but I’m going to try with this new year to make a new beginning.
The last time I wrote anything was March 20, 1935. The day before our dear Bobby fell ill with the meningitis. He was only five. A baby still.
I wonder, will I ever be able to go back and read those journals for the years passed, now that everything has changed. Even my handwriting is different, and it hurts so much to think of that younger me who had no idea dreams were so fragile.
This time has seemed darker even than when Kiara died, although our Bobby lived. And now I must find a way to cope with it. If I don’t, dear Bobby will have no one. And Jess needs me as well, to help him heal and live again.
But who will help me heal?
It was all I thought to ask for. That Bobby would live. But nothing is the same.
Before the meningitis, the house was full of sounds. Bobby’s feet running, Bobby banging my pots and pans, Bobby chattering to himself like a squirrel in his own language, occasionally surprising me with words in my language.
Now, I cannot tell if he understands me or, indeed, if he feels anything. He lies so quietly, I can hear the clock ticking in the other room.
I am suspended in time. Jess goes out into the world each day and returns each night, but the boundaries of my world are this house and yard. It’s as if Bobby and I are under a spell and are waiting for a fairy godmother to touch us with her magic wand so he will be able to run and talk, and I will be able to feel once more.
Chapter Seventeen
“What do you think?” Charles asked. “We got a shot at the division title this year?”
“Classic definition of ‘hopeful’ is a baseball fan in the spring.” Alan hadn’t been in the mood for a baseball game, but Charles had insisted.
“In other words?”
“Not a prayer.”
“That optimistic, huh?” Charles waved the beer vendor over. “You ready for another?”
“No. I’m good.” Not true. Only eight days since he learned he wasn’t getting tenure and four days since Grace, Delia, and Kathy had failed to come for their weekly ride. At first, he worried they had been in an accident, but the highway patrol said there had been no accidents on any of the roads leading to the ranch.
He’d called Grace, several times, but there was no answer. He didn’t know what to think. Were they away, or were they choosing not to speak to him?
He knew he’d handled the situation with Kathy badly, but he hadn’t expe
cted Grace to cut him off as well. Delia loved the horses, so it was cruel of Grace to let his problems with Kathy interfere with that. It really was taking feminine solidarity entirely too far.
“You never mentioned what happened with your tenure decision,” Charles said, paying the vendor and taking a sip of his fresh beer.
It was a relief for Alan to change the direction of his thoughts, even though this subject was almost as painful. “Committee approved it. Hilstrom didn’t.”
“That’s a tie. What happens next?”
“College committee, Dean, provost, and the board of trustees.” Alan took a sip of his beer. Finding it lukewarm, he set it down.
Charles glanced at him. “Next time I’m trying to teach a witness to answer just the question and not give details, remind me to give you a call.”
“Everyone after Hilstrom is more for show, not go. I’m out.”
There was a sudden flurry of activity as the batter hit a high fly to left field. After the Rockies’ player caught the ball, Charles sat back down. “You’re not going to fight it?” he asked, picking up the thread of conversation along with his beer.
Alan shrugged. “I followed your advice. Gave the impression I might sue. Obviously, it didn’t work.”
Taking a sip of beer, Charles examined him. “Hmph, how did I miss it? You’re not even trying to write anymore, are you.” He set his beer down. “It’s Meg, isn’t it.”
“You think everything is Meg.” Alan looked away, his gut tightening.